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Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
My heart forgets,
Sore on you beats.
Now Phæbe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffi'd, view'd the dreary plain; Still crouding thoughts, a pepsive train,
Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole
“ Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,
Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land!
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,
With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
The pow'rs you proudly own?
To bless himself alone!
To love-pretending snares,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis’ry's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
A cottage-rousing craw.
But deep this truth impress'd my mind
Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.
A BROTHER POET*.
And hing us owre the ingle,
In hamely westlin jingle.
Ben to the chimla lug,
Their roomy fire-side;
To see their cursed pride,
To see how things are shar'd;
And ken na how to wair't:
Tho' we hae little gear,
As lang's we're hale and fier :
* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect.
« Mair spier na, no fear na'
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
Is only for to beg.
III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could make us blest; Ev’n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste
of truest happiness.
Intended fraud or guile,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae farther can we fa',
But either house or hal'?
Are free alike to all.
And blackbirds whistle elear,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
And sing't when we hae done,
To purchase peace and rest;
To make us truly blest:
And centre in the breast,
Could make us happy lang ;
That makes us right or wrang.
ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,
· Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while ?
God's creatures they oppress!
Of either heav'n or hell!
It's a' an idle tale !
By pining at our state;
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They let us ken oursel;
The real guid and ill.